


I Will Take Care Of You

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, BAMF!Lestrade, Fluff, John does not take lightly to those who threaten Sherlock, John takes care of business, M/M, h/c, no one gets to threaten Sherlock, shades of The Empty House, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Sherlock's death, John comes to find him on the sofa. Wounded and ill, Sherlock is convinced he's hallucinating and refuses to share any details about Moran or the fact that Mycroft has been compromised. That doesn't stop John from stepping up and taking care of the last of Moriarty's web, BAMF-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the BBC kink meme.

It's a humid afternoon in June, nearly at the anniversary of that day, when John returns home from the surgery. He's had a surprisingly easy day, just summer colds, with the toughest case being a young woman who has been playing a little too much tennis, and he's contemplating what he might have for supper as he opens the door to his flat. He's not expecting to walk inside and find that someone else has already made themselves comfortable, yet that's exactly what's waiting for him.

For a long moment, John just stares. It takes his mind a moment to understand that someone is, indeed, sitting on the sofa, wrapped up in a ratty old blanket. His instinct is to run for his gun but he pauses before his body can follow through on the action and he doesn't know why. 

"Hey," he says. "Who are you?"

No response. 

"Hey. Excuse me?"

Still nothing.

Highly aware that this could be a trap, John edges across the room. Slowly, he grabs the edge of the sheet, ready to react in case it's a trap of some kind, and pulls it down.

His mind freezes.

It's Sherlock.

John stares, and stares some more, and in the end he can't quite stop staring. 

It _is_ Sherlock. The dark curls, more ragged than usual and in need of a haircut, tumble down around his face, creating a fringe that he can hide behind. His eyes are closed and his face is tilted against the back of the sofa. His face is still pale though his cheeks are strangely flushed, and a fresh bruise is developing rapidly on the cusp of his chin. He smells awful and his clothing is noticeably torn and in bad shape and he looks about twenty pounds thinner, but _it's Sherlock_.

"Jesus fucking Christ," John breathes out finally, sitting back. 

There were times when he imagined this, this very scenario, but he gave up on those hopes several months ago, when he couldn't take them anymore. Having them come true now seems like a strange parody of a dream. Hesitantly, he reaches out and touches Sherlock's arm. His fingers come into contact with flesh and he jumps, startled, and with that jump comes the first wave of disbelieving joy tinged with fury.

"Sherlock!" he says, grabbing the man's shoulder. He wants answers and he wants them now.

Sherlock's head falls to the side and his eyes open slowly. "John?" he says slowly.

"Bloody hell, you wanker, you bastard, yes it's me! What are you... no, how did you... Sherlock!" All of his questions rush to the forefront of his mind and in the end, John gets nothing out except for the man's name, and really it seems that's enough.

"John," Sherlock murmurs. He looks around the flat like he doesn't know where he is, brow furrowed in confusion before he sighs. "Oh. I must be hallucinating again. This is annoying."

"Hallucinating...?" John trails off as he starts to notice things that he didn't before. Sweat is beading up across Sherlock's forehead even though he's shaking, no, shivering. His eyes are hazy, distant, and the skin beneath John's fingertips is warm. Very warm. John's hand snaps up and he places the back of his it to Sherlock's forehead. He sucks in a sharp breath at the feeling of the dry heat emanating from the expanse of skin and winces.

"Sherlock," he says carefully. "You're not hallucinating. You're here, with me. You're in my flat."

"In your flat," Sherlock repeats, but it's evident that he doesn't really understand and John closes his eyes in frustration.

"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath. It is so like Sherlock to fake his own death somehow, leave John in agony for months, and then show up expecting John to take care of him. And the worst part is, instead of chucking Sherlock out like he should, John is going to do it.

He gets up and gently unwraps the blanket from around Sherlock. The smell immediately gets worse. It seems that at some point Sherlock urinated on himself and the blanket. He probably wasn't even aware he was doing it. John sighs and sits back down, suddenly exhausted even though he hasn't done much. He stares at his deathly ill ex-flatmate and feels a headache coming on. 

"I should just be calling Mycroft," he says, barely aware he's even saying it.

Sherlock's eyes snap open and he lurches upright, grabbing John's shirts with hands that tremble. "No! No, John. You can't call Mycroft. He's been compromised. He's not secure. Moran will be furious and he'll know and he'll kill you. Whatever you do, _do not call Mycroft_."

"Alright, Sherlock, alright," John says gently, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's thin wrists. Christ, they're so thin they feel fragile. "Calm down. Who is Moran?"

"Moran?" Sherlock tenses, the moment of lucidity lost, and hunches in on himself. "I don't know who that is. My name is Sigerson. I'm a farmer from Germany."

"A farmer from..." John raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "Sherlock - "

"My name is Sigerson!"

"For the love of..." John pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, slow sigh. Calling on reserves of patience that he hasn't touched in months, he says, "Sigerson, then, why don't you come take a shower? You'll feel much better. Then you can sleep for a while." After some medication and, hopefully, food.

Wary, dazed verdigris eyes stare at him from under a fringe of curls for a long time. Just when John thinks he's going to have to force the issue, Sherlock says in a small voice, "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a little effort - at least twice, Sherlock’s legs give out on him – but finally John has Sherlock on his feet, supported by a strong arm around Sherlock’s slender waist. John slowly guides him to the bathroom where he methodically strips the man, tossing the old, soiled clothing into the corner. He’ll dispose of it (possibly by burning) later on. Sherlock is filthy, his skin a grimy shade of grey, and he’s been in a fight recently. Numerous cuts and bruise litter his body, including one particularly bad gash that makes John swear when he sees it. A deep slice across right across the muscles on the left upper arm, the wound is shiny and red and swollen with infection.

“Sherlock, you utter pillock,” he mutters, dismayed. No need to wonder where the fever comes from, then. In spite of his new sense of panic, his hands remain gentle as he urges Sherlock into the tub and sits him down. Sherlock allows this without comment, having gone strangely silent, and he remains this way as John fills the tub halfway with warm water and begins scrubbing him clean. It’s an arduous task that ends up taking well over an hour, a new bar of soap and several refills of the tub. By the end of it John’s fingers ache, but at least he can actually see and deal with the damage now.

“John,” Sherlock says suddenly.

“I’m here, Sherlock.” He sits back on his heels and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead wearily, mentally categorizing which wounds need to be dealt with and which can be left to heal on their own. There’s far more than he wants to think about that will need to be tended to. Who the hell had hurt Sherlock? And why? He burns with the urge to ask questions, but he knows Sherlock won’t answer. He sighs. “Come on.”

Sherlock looks up at him and John can almost see the struggle to understand, to process the information through the fever and chills. “My head hurts,” he says at last.

It’s funny, the things that can break you. Those three words, spoken in a childish voice he’s never heard before, are very nearly his undoing. John holds himself together with the help of several deep breaths. “I know,” he says softly, reaching down and cupping his hands supportively under Sherlock’s good arm. He gets Sherlock standing again, a major accomplishment, and leads him back to the bedroom. Sherlock collapses onto the bed and only rolls over when John forces him to.

“Stay there,” John tells him, though it’s not like Sherlock will be going anywhere considering that he can barely stand. He leaves the room in search of his medical kit and finds it right where he left it, but he needs a minute before he goes back. He leans against the chair and puts a shaking hand over his face. His mind is spinning in an effort to accept this new development and he knows he still hasn’t fully accepted that Sherlock is alive, that when he goes back into that room he’ll have a warm flesh and blood body on the bed instead of nothing.

“Christ,” he whispers. “Jesus… fucking…” He trails off and gropes for his phone. Sherlock will need things, things John doesn’t have like antibiotics and better food, and there is no way that John is leaving him alone in the flat for even a minute. His list of people to call is pitifully small. If Sherlock is right, Mycroft has been compromised. He doesn’t dare involve Mrs Hudson in this, and he’s not sure Harry will be sober enough to respond. That leaves one person. He dials a familiar number.

“Lestrade.”

“Greg, it’s me,” John says. “I’m going to text you a list of things. I need you to pick them up and come to my flat as soon as you can.”

“John? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just… please.”

There’s a long pause. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” John says with genuine relief. He hangs up and quickly compiles a list, which he sends to Greg. Then he puts in a quick call to Sarah, who reluctantly agrees to write out a prescription for some antibiotics after he makes up a story about having hurt himself in the kitchen. She hasn’t seen him in a couple of days and he won’t be taking any shifts in the near future, so she won’t know it’s not true until it no longer matters.

Then he grabs his kit and heads in to finish taking care of Sherlock.

It takes a while, takes a lot more of his skill than he was expecting, and his kit is depleted by the time he’s finished. White bandages cover a good portion of Sherlock’s body (he ends up texting Greg another substantial list), and what’s not bandaged is scraped or bruised in some way. Mercifully, Sherlock passed out at some point early on and he didn’t have to feel John cleaning out the wound on his arm. His fever is still raging, though. John takes his temperature and is disturbed at finding it still well above where it should be.

“What the hell have you been doing?” he asks quietly, shaking the thermometer absently to clear it. He doesn’t expect an answer and he doesn’t get one, or at least, not to his question. Sherlock murmurs restlessly under his breath and shifts, squirming uncomfortably. John gets up and wearily trudges into the kitchen, fetching a small bowl of cold water and a cloth. When he returns to the room he places the dampened cloth on Sherlock’s forehead. It seems to help a little, though Sherlock continues to twitch, his fingers opening and closing spasmodically, like he’s trying to reach for something he can’t grasp. John knows the feeling.

He sits down again, ready to watch over Sherlock until Greg arrives. Because if there is one thing he has learned, it’s that no one is untouchable. Sherlock Holmes is no more infallible than any other man, and apparently, neither is Mycroft. That knowledge sits heavily in John’s stomach like an ice cold knot and he has no idea what to do about any of it. No bloody idea at all.


	3. Chapter 3

About an hour later, there's a knock on his door. John blinks, startled out of his semi-conscious doze, and stands up stiffly. He winces as his leg protests and casts one last look at Sherlock. He's been relatively quiet for the past half hour, so John feels comfortable leaving him in the bedroom while he goes out to the door. He looks through the hole to make sure it's Greg and it is. Greg's clothes are wrinkled and stained with coffee, and his hair is a mess from having fingers running through it every hour, and he looks exhausted, but he still manages to smile for John when the door opens. 

"Delivery?" he says, holding up bags.

"I didn't realize NSY was into that," John jokes, taking some of the bags. He's pleased to note that Greg got nearly everything he asked for. "Lock the door behind you, yeah?"

He goes into the kitchen and puts the stuff down on the table, unpacking it automatically. Most of the food is simple, easy to digest stuff - canned soup, crackers, juice, that sort of thing. It will be easier for Sherlock to keep it down. Greg comes in with the rest of the bags, which include the antibiotics. John feels a wave of relief as soon as he sees them. That, more than anything else, will help Sherlock get better. He wants to go straight in and force a couple of pills down Sherlock's throat, but he doesn't. He knows Greg is bursting with curiosity and he doesn't want Greg to just see Sherlock without warning. He likes Greg too much to give the man a heart attack before the age of fifty.

"Listen," he says, "I've got something to tell you. But you can't tell anyone. I mean it, Greg. This is a life or death situation and it could go south very quickly. It may also end up being illegal.” It _will_ be illegal if John gets his hands on the bastards who hurt Sherlock. “I understand if you don't want to be a part of it. You can turn around and leave and I won't think any less of you."

"John." Greg gives him a look that means he's being stupid. "I’m going to ignore that. You don't look you're injured so I can only assume this stuff is for someone else. What's going on?"

John's throat feels dry. He says, "It's Sherlock."

Greg goes still.

"When I showed up at the flat tonight, he was there waiting for me. On my sofa." Already he knows what Greg is thinking and he holds up a hand. "No, really. I haven't lost my mind and I'm not hallucinating. He's in my bed right now. He was in a fight and he's pretty bad off. He's got a cut on his arm that's infected and he's burning a high fever. I don't dare let anyone know he's here because, whoever did this to him, I don’t think they’re finished with him yet. That's why I needed you to bring me this stuff. Ta for that, by the way, I appreciate it."

"No problem," Greg says in the way of someone who is not paying any attention. He looks pretty bowled over and it's obvious he's trying to decide whether or not John has lost it. 

The thing is, it took John a while to be able to forgive a lot of people after Sherlock's death. It's only because he knows what Greg lost that they've been able to remain friends, that he trusts Greg enough to bring him into this situation. He looks the man in the eye and says, "Come on. I'll show you."

Sherlock is still in bed, exactly where John left him, and in spite of John's confidence he still feels a wave of relief that Sherlock is really there. Behind him Greg swears softly and staggers back against the wall, staring like he's seen a ghost. Which, to be fair, he very nearly has. John lets him have a minute and walks over to the bed carrying the pills and a glass of water. He puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and then can’t resist trailing it up across his sweaty collarbone, up one thin cheek, and into his hair, smoothing the tumbling curls back out of Sherlock's face. Slowly, pale eyes open and look up at him blearily.

"Sherlock," John says quietly, "I need you take these pills for me. Can you do that?"

Sherlock just stares at him for a long moment and John decides to take that as a yes. He slides an arm behind Sherlock's shoulders and props the man up. It's far too easy to support his weight. Frustration, anger and a little bit of guilt churn away at John as he gently presses the pills into Sherlock's mouth and then holds the glass to his lips. Sherlock drinks in short, breathy little gulps, panting after each swallow like he can't get enough air into his lungs. Still, he keeps going until he's consumed the whole thing and that's a good sign if John ever saw one. 

"John?" Sherlock mumbles when he's all done. The word is hoarse, a broken figment of Sherlock’s beautiful voice.

"It's me, Sherlock."

"Where am I?" Sherlock looks around hazily.

"My flat. You're with me and Greg. Lestrade," John says. At the sound of his name Greg stumbles away from the wall.

“Sherlock,” he says. “You’re… bloody fucking hell. You’re _alive_.”

“Lestrade? I’ve never dreamt about you before,” Sherlock says, his brow furrowing. “You’re always back at the Yard where you belong. Moriarty isn’t - his men haven’t come after you again, have they? That’s not how it’s supposed to work, you’re to be safe now that I’m dead - ”

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” John grips his chin and turns his face so that they’re looking at each other. Sherlock’s chest is heaving and he’s gasping, eyes moving around the room frantically. John loosens his grip and strokes the soft skin of his cheek gently with the pad of his thumb, making his voice soothing. “It’s alright, love. Moriarty is dead and his men are nowhere near here. Greg just came over for a visit. You’re perfectly safe, we all are. Shh. It’s alright.”

“John,” Sherlock whispers, his eyes growing heavily lidded. His head tilts forward and lands on John’s bad shoulder. “I’m so tired. I missed you so much. I thought about you every day. You have no idea how often I started writing a text to you, but I had to delete them all. I’m sorry.”

The sudden clarity in Sherlock’s voice makes John stiffen. For a split second, _this_ is his Sherlock: no fever, no confusion, no hallucinations. But the moment is lost when Sherlock’s eyes slip fully shut and he curls in towards John like a child seeking comfort. John just stares down at him for a long time, speechless.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg slumps down into a seat at the table and puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t move. John casts him a concerned look but keeps walking, moving over to the sofa. He’s been so busy with Sherlock that he hasn’t had the chance to see what Sherlock brought with him. Tucked into the side of the sofa, half-hidden behind one of the cushions, is a flat parcel wrapped up in grimy paper that, possibly, used to be pale brown once upon a time, but which is now streaked with all manner of filth, including but not limited to what looks like blood. John dons a pair of gloves before he unwraps it and reveals that it’s a thin laptop. His heart skips a beat.

A laptop. With information. If they can get inside – oh. Yes. A frown touches his lips. That’s a rather large _if_ knowing Sherlock. He strips off the gloves and moves back to the table, placing the laptop down gently. Greg doesn’t stir. John looks at him for a moment and then goes to the refrigerator. He pulls out two beers. He didn’t – couldn’t – keep alcohol around the flat for a long time after Sherlock’s death, but recently he’s taken to keeping a couple of bottles around and right now he’s immensely thankful for that. He sets one of them down in front of Greg, who looks up at the sound of the _clink_ and then grabs it like a dying man.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, already twisting the top off. “But I just... holy fuck. Jesus Christ, John, how are you still standing?”

John smiles and puts his own bottle to his lips. The cool, mealy taste helps to clear his head a bit. “There’ll be time for me to lose it later,” he says. “Right now Sherlock needs me.” And he’s never been better than when Sherlock requires it.

Greg shakes his head and sucks down half the bottle in one long gulp. “Assume he’s right. Assume Moriarty is still alive. What are you planning to do about it?”

“Moriarty is dead,” John says firmly. He made sure of that just because he so badly wanted to be the one who murdered the psychopath. “But his men aren’t. I think Sherlock’s right about that. Someone did that to him, Greg.” Just the thought of it fills him with a slow boil of fury. He should’ve been there. “They’re going to do it again unless we stop them.”

“What about Mycroft?” Greg says finally. “Do you think...?”

“I asked. Sherlock says he’s compromised.”

“Are you sure it’s true?”

“No,” John says honestly. Sherlock was out of his mind with fever and pain when he said that. But... “I can’t risk it, Greg. If it is true and I went to Mycroft, it will put Sherlock in too much danger.”

Greg nods slowly and drums his fingers on the table. “Whatever you need to me to do, however I can help,” he says.

“Right now I need you to go back to work,” John says. He holds up a hand to stop the inevitable protest. “No, listen to me. They’re going to suspect he came to me, Greg. I need to you act as normal as possible for as long as you can so that we can avoid that kind of suspicion. Besides, I need you at NSY so you can look up everything they’ve got on a man named Moran.”

“Moran?”

“Sherlock mentioned him. I think he’s pretty high up in Moriarty’s game,” John explains. The name also sounds vaguely familiar but he can’t place it. “I’ll start working on Sherlock’s laptop. If he wakes up and he’s lucid I’ll see if he’ll answer some questions, but the last time I asked him anything he shut down. Started saying his name was Sigerson and that he was from Germany.”

“Sounds about right.” Greg smirks. “One of the first cases Sherlock and I ever went on together, he used that as a disguise. Farmer, right?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly, John is irrationally grateful that Greg is here with him, dealing with this. He doesn’t know if he could handle it alone, doesn’t know if even Greg’s steady presence will be enough. Moran has bested both Sherlock and Mycroft... what chance do an ex-soldier and a detective inspector have?

Maybe Greg can read the indecision in his face because he leans over and claps a hand to John’s good shoulder. “We’ll get them, mate,” he says quietly, a fierce determination in his warm brown eyes. “Before you know it you and Sherlock will be back at 221b annoying the shit out of me and my team.”

John lets out a quiet laugh. “I hope so,” he says, unable to articulate how much he longs for that to happen.

Greg shoots him a smile and gets up. “I’ll go. But be careful, John, yeah? Don’t do anything stupid.”

John promises he won’t and sees Greg to the door. It’s a promise he can’t keep and they both know it. There is no limit to the stupidity he’ll put himself through if it means that Sherlock will come away from this alive. That’s why, at about 3am when he hears the faint, tell-tale sounds coming from the door, he doesn’t call the police. He gets his gun, moving slowly and quietly. Sherlock is sleeping a little better than he was this afternoon but he’s still defenceless, so helpless, and John is determined that no one is going to get to Sherlock through him.

He surprises the man who has just slipped through the door. A single blow to the back of the head in the right spot sends the man toppling over, landing silently on the carpet in a heap. John stands over him, gun held at the ready, but the man doesn’t move. He pushes the door shut and kneels, patting the man down systematically. The things he finds only serve to make his fury burn that much colder. Three different knives of varying sharpness. A gun. Rope. Gags. Blindfolds. Needles filled with unidentifiable substances. 

It only takes him a moment to truss the man up. Then he sits down and waits.


	5. Chapter 5

The man has dark hair and a bland, unremarkable face, the sort of person you’d see in a crowd and never think twice about walking by. John supposes that’s the point. He’s wearing dark clothing – a plain black button-up shirt and a pair of black trousers – and has gloves on, or had them on until John took them off. He’s not overly tall, probably a couple of inches taller than John, but his shoulders are broad and he has a lot of heavy muscle in his arms and legs. He’s strong and likely trained. Too bad he wasn’t smart enough to know that an ex-soldier is always on guard.

John did a little more searching while the man was out and discovered a couple of things taped to the man’s abdomen. A set of identification papers (probably false) that says his name is Tobias Gregson and a mobile phone. John hasn’t turned it on but he keeps it tucked into his pocket. He keeps watching Gregson, not daring to take his eyes off of the man. His gun is held loosely in his hand and he knows he has no issue with shooting if Gregson so much as makes a move towards the room where Sherlock is.

Slowly, as the long minutes tick by, Gregson starts to stir. His head moves minutely and then he takes a sharp, shallow breath and goes still. He goes limp a split second later and John knows he’s trying to pretend he’s still unconscious, and if he hadn’t been watching so closely he might have believed it. As it is, he merely smiles grimly. “I know you’re awake,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. “You might as well stop pretending.”

Gregson goes all stiff. Then he says in a hoarse voice, “Is this how you treat all your patients, Doctor?”

“Just the ones who enter my flat without permission,” John replies. Gregson opens his eyes and looks over at him. His eyes are a pale green, eerie in the dim lighting. John stares back at him flatly. “Who are you?”

“I see you’ve already found my license. I don’t think there’s any need for me to go through all of it again,” Gregson says. “Unless you’re trying to check to see if I have a concussion, which seems rather counter-productive considering that – ah!” he breaks off with a sharp cry of pain. It’s caused by John standing up in one swift movement and leaning over him and grabbing a fistful of dark hair. He wrenches Gregson’s head up so that their eyes meet.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he says coldly. “Because of people like _you_ , I’ve spent the last two years thinking that my best friend was dead. There is no fucking way you or anyone else is getting past me to finish the job, do you understand?” His hand tightens, pulling ruthlessly on the strands, and Gregson winces. “Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way, _Gregson_. You can tell me what I want to know and then you get to walk out of here. I don’t care what happens to you, if Moran kills you or not, but if I see you again, I will kill you.” At the mention of the name Moran Gregson goes tense and his breathing picks up. “Or you can play these games with me until I lose patience and temporarily forget about the fact that I was ever a doctor as well as a soldier. It’s your choice.”

Gregson just stares at him for a long moment. Then he smiles. “It won’t matter. You’ll never stop Moran. He’s got his orders and he’s going to carry them out no matter what it takes. Your days are numbered, _Doctor_.”

“If that’s supposed to frighten me, you’re mistaken,” John says. He picks up his gun and presses it against Gregson’s temple. “Who is working with Moran?”

He squirms, face paling, and John presses harder, finger inching over the trigger. Would he kill a man in cold blood? One who was defenceless and couldn’t fight back, who didn’t technically pose any threat? He doesn’t know. All he can think about is Sherlock and something in him says yes.

“Adair,” Gregson says at last. “Ronald Adair. That’s Moran’s right-hand man. The two of them are the only ones left. Holmes has gotten the rest of them already.”

John doesn’t bother to ask which Holmes. It doesn’t matter. If Gregson can be believed Adair has to be the one who has infiltrated Mycroft’s association. Again, the name rings a bell, but he can’t take the time to place it, not at the moment. He presses the gun just a little bit harder, enjoying the way that Gregson tenses in reply, then abruptly hits the man over the head for a second time. Gregson goes limp against the sofa, eyes rolling up in his head. John eases the gun away, realizing that he doesn’t know what to do with him. Normally he’d call Mycroft but the idea doesn’t bode well, not when Adair could be the one who shows up in response to the call.

He hears unsteady footsteps out in the hall and looks up just as Sherlock appears in the doorway. “John?” he says, leaning heavily against the door. He looks confused. “I heard voices. What’s... what are you...” He looks at Gregson and his brow furrows. “Do I know him?”

“Sherlock, you should be in bed,” John says gently, tucking his gun back into the waistband of his jeans. He moves across the room and takes Sherlock’s arm, allowing the taller man to rest his weight against John. The warmth emanating from Sherlock’s body is still much too hot and John hates the thought of moving him but he knows they haven’t got a choice. If Gregson came by there’s no telling who could be right behind him. He cups a hand around Sherlock’s chin and smoothes a curl away from Sherlock’s forehead. 

“John,” Sherlock whispers, the plaintive sound barely audible, and John’s heart aches. He doesn’t know what happened to Sherlock during these past two years but instinct tells him that it was awful. His friend looks haunted and he wants to change that; the desire to protect Sherlock is consuming.

“Shh,” he breathes. “It will be alright, Sherlock, I promise. I’ll take care of it, okay? You don’t have to do anything anymore.”

Sherlock lowers his head so that it’s resting in the hollow of John’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything but the way his shaking hands curl into John’s shirt is enough.


	6. Chapter 6

Steady work at a local surgery in combination with a monthly allowance that has mysteriously appeared in John’s bank account for the past two years has allowed John to save up a fair bit of money while Sherlock was gone. He’s not rich by any means, but he lives a fairly simple life and as a result he has more than enough to put him and Sherlock up in a hotel for a few nights. He packs up a small suitcase and his medical kit and gets Sherlock dressed. John’s clothes don’t fit him well at all - they’re too short in the legs and arms and too large at the shoulders and waist - but they’ll do for the short drive.

Just before they leave he drags Gregson into the bedroom and tosses the man down on the bed. Tempting as it is to beat him black and blue, he settles for tying Gregson down and making sure that the man won’t escape without outside help. He takes a cruel delight in leaving him there. He’ll come back or send someone when he’s got a chance, but his priority is Sherlock and he doesn’t have the time to care about someone who was trying to kill them both. It’s possible that if Gregson doesn’t escape (and John doubts he will) he’ll be a little more willing to talk after he spends a couple of days without food or water.

He takes Sherlock downstairs and summons a cab. Sherlock really does seem to have some magical taxi-summoning ability because one pulls up right away. John puts the case and the kit in the boot and guides Sherlock inside. “Take us to a hotel,” he says. “It doesn’t matter which one.”

The cabbie nods and they pull out into traffic. Sherlock is swaying in his seat, staring out the window with an expression of vague confusion. John pulls his head around and presses the back of his hand to Sherlock’s forehead. He sighs at the resulting heat, knowing that little can be done until the antibiotics run their course and that Sherlock’s not due for another dose yet, and guides Sherlock’s head down to rest on his shoulder. Sherlock seems to take this as permission to curl up into John with a soft sound that could be described as a whimper.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs into his hair. “Who is Ronald Adair?”

“Son of an Earl,” Sherlock mumbles, voice barely audible. “Gambler. Likes women and men but the latter is a poorly kept secret. Married once, no children. Wife left him after she caught him in bed with another man. Claims that they split up over financial reasons but everyone knows the truth. Used to work for his father but after his wife left him he went looking elsewhere. Now he works for Mycroft.”

John barely manages to keep himself from tensing. “What does he do?”

“Boring work,” Sherlock says.

“You think everything is boring, you git,” John replies, unable to keep the smile from his face. “Does Mycroft trust him?”

“As much as he trusts anyone.”

Absently John begins stroking Sherlock’s hair and the back of his neck while he ponders this. If Adair is a double agent of some kind, it seems odd that Mycroft wouldn’t know. Then again, all humans, Sherlock and Mycroft included, have blind spots and Moriarty was excellent at knowing how to use them against people. “And Moran?”

Sherlock stiffens and rears back. “I don’t know that name. My name is Sigerson and I’m a simple farmer from Germany!” he spits out.

Damn. “Shh, alright, Sigerson, alright, just calm down.” John reaches out to him with placating hands. What is it about the name Moran that sets Sherlock off like this every time? Now more than ever John wants to have a long talk with the bloke, especially when Sherlock twists away from his touch with another whimper and presses his body against the far side of the cab in an effort to get away, like he thinks John’s going to hurt him. John catches the cabbie eyeing them in the mirror and controls the urge to take Sherlock into his arms and soothe his every pain away. Instead he drops his hands to his knees and forces himself to let Sherlock have a moment.

By the time they pull up to the hotel Sherlock has relaxed, though his face maintains a wary look. He allows John to help him out of the cab but it’s evident that Sherlock, lost to feverish confusion, has no idea who he is. He treats John the way he would a stranger, with a detached regard that borders on open hostility, and he flinches every time John touches him. It’s infuriating to see this man, this utterly brilliant, proud man, being reduced to someone who is actually _afraid_. John shoves it all aside and puts his doctor skills to the test, coaxing Sherlock along and treating him as though he is made from glass. They make it inside the hotel with the case and kit and John books them a single room with a large bed. There’s no way he’s leaving Sherlock alone for even a minute.

“Enjoy your stay!” the overly cheerful concierge chirps and John sends her a grim smile in reply.

Their room is on the third floor and it’s easily big enough to accommodate two people. John guides Sherlock to the bed immediately and leaves him there while he scouts out the room. He shuts the curtains and bolts the door. Sherlock watches him do this with a vaguely bemused air but he doesn’t pull away when John tells him to lie down. “I’m not in Germany, am I?” he asks.

“No, you’re not.” John tugs off the shoes and flips a blanket over Sherlock’s feet. 

“I must still be in Paris,” Sherlock says to himself. “John, I wish you were really here. My arm hurts.”

“I _am_ here, Sherlock.” Even as he says it John knows it’s useless. Sherlock’s moments of clarity are few and far between and right now he seems to think that John is a hallucination of some sort. Possibly it’s for the best: if Sherlock knew that he was really with John he might do something stupid like trying to sneak away to go after Moran and Adair on his own. 

“It’s nice of you to say that even though it’s not true.” Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and his voice drops into a barely audible hum of nonsensical deductions. John pauses to listen to him for a moment and shakes his head when he realizes that Sherlock is talking about sheep and the number five, occasionally interspersed with a sound roughly shaped into John’s name. John sits down next to the bed, close enough that Sherlock can see him if the man so chooses, and opens up the laptop. No matter how much of a pain it is, he needs this information and he’s going to get it.


	7. Chapter 7

The sound of his mobile ringing wakes John up. For a moment he stares around the unfamiliar room, confused and slightly disoriented. Then awareness dawns on him. Right. He’s in the hotel room with Sherlock, and after about an hour and a couple hundred unsuccessful passwords he must have dozed off. He shifts the laptop off of his knees and stands, wincing at the way his back cracks. His phone is where he left it, on the little table by the door, and he picks it up. Something tightens in his stomach when he sees the name on the screen. Mycroft.

John’s relationship with the man hasn’t been the best ever since he found out about Mycroft’s hand in Moriarty’s obsession with Sherlock. He has a vague memory of punching Mycroft in the face during Sherlock’s funeral and then being forcibly pulled away by Greg. Mycroft never retaliated and they’ve never mentioned it, but it about a week later money started appearing in John’s bank account. John hasn’t touched it, but nor has he bothered to tell Mycroft he doesn’t want it. Now, looking at Sherlock who appears to be sleeping relatively peacefully, he’s relieved that he didn’t. 

Knowing from experience that Mycroft will persist until he gets an answer, John holds the phone to his ear. “Hello.”

“John,” Mycroft says. “I noticed that you unexpectedly left your flat this morning.”

Bloody cameras. He wonders if Mycroft recognized Sherlock. He can’t remember if Sherlock would’ve been in a position for his face to be seen or not. If he was, then Mycroft knows Sherlock is alive and with John and John hopes he’s kept that information to himself. If he wasn’t, then Mycroft has either guessed the truth or is fishing for more information. Actually, the latter is probably true on both counts. He says, “Yes, I did” and leaves it at that, neither affirming nor denying anything. 

“Bit unusual for you.”

“Yes,” John says again. If Mycroft is waiting for him to hang himself he’s going to have a long wait. John didn’t live with a Holmes for years without learning a trick or two.

“Are you in danger, John?” Mycroft asks bluntly.

“Yes,” John says for a third time. There’s no point in denying it. “As Sherlock’s blogger, I’m always in danger, Mycroft. He has a lot of enemies.”

There’s a split second pause and John knows that Mycroft caught the use of present tense in regards to Sherlock. He resists the urge to fidget just in case Mycroft will somehow be aware. He looks back at the bed, at Sherlock, who has shifted to roll over onto his unwounded side. A fringe of curls has fallen down across his eyes and he looks vulnerable, almost childlike, if terribly thin. Something soft and achingly painful thuds in John’s chest and it’s so strong it chokes him for a moment. He thinks, for a moment of blinding panic, that he knows what it means and he has to resolutely thrust it aside before he can speak. Now is not the time.

“I want you,” he says in a low voice, “to leave us alone. You’ve done enough.”

“John – ”

“No, Mycroft. I don’t care what you _think_ you know or what you _do_ know. Stop watching me on the cameras. Don’t send any of your men to follow me or keep track of me and don’t contact me again.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “You’re putting us in more danger every time you do” and wonders if Mycroft will understand.

“I see,” Mycroft says after another brief pause. “Very well. For the moment I’m willing to comply with your wishes, Doctor Watson.”

“Good. Thank you.” John moves to hang up, but before he can, Mycroft speaks again.

“Oh, and Doctor?”

“What?”

“Try ‘Vatican Cameos’.”

The line goes dead before John can respond. He stares at the phone for a long moment and then looks at the laptop. “Bloody Holmes,” he mutters under his breath, setting the phone back down. He steps over to the laptop and types the password in. Sure enough, the screen goes dark for a split second and then lights up with a familiar logo. John just shakes his head and decides that he really doesn’t want to know how Mycroft knew. 

While the laptop finishes starting up, he searches through his kit until he finds the antibiotics. He shakes a couple out into his hand and goes into the loo, where he fills a glass with water and brings it back out with him. He hates to wake Sherlock - from the looks of it this may very well be the first peaceful sleep Sherlock has had since he stepped off of the roof - but the infection won't disappear on its own. John sets the glass and pills down on the stand and then perches on the edge of the bed. He sets a hand lightly on Sherlock's forehead and gently strokes the sweat-dampened curls, allowing Sherlock to find his own way out of his muddled dreams.

"Sherlock," he murmurs softly. "It's time to wake up."

"John?" Sherlock's eyes open and he peers up through the dark. "Where are we?"

"In a hotel."

"Are we on vacation?"

John's lips quirk faintly. "Yes, love, we are," he says, because it seems like the kindest thing to say. He presses the pills to Sherlock's mouth, keeping up the faint pressure until Sherlock accepts them. Then he helps Sherlock to take small sips of the cold water. It's a relief to see Sherlock drain the glass and, surprisingly, ask for more. John gets him a second glass and then a third. Finally, Sherlock falls back on the bed and his eyes flutter shut, like the simple act of drinking so much water has exhausted his resources. John takes the opportunity to unwrap the bandages on his arm and check his wound. 

Sherlock falls back asleep while John is re-bandaging his arm, the easiest John has ever seen him, and John stands up and moves back over to the laptop. Though there are plenty of files just waiting to be ready, he bypasses them in favour of his e-mail. Sure enough, there is a message from Greg, and a rather worried one at that. John sends back a perfunctory reply that gives as little detail as possible. It's impossible to know how secure the NSY computers are. Then he settles in to read.


	8. Chapter 8

It's interesting, what he learns. It's not all about Moran and Adair, of course. Sherlock has been gone for two years, after all, and he hasn't spent the whole time chasing after those two. The vast majority of the files are information about the other men and women who have been a part of Moriarty's web. John feels a chill running through him the more he reads. The things they've done, the things they wanted to do, it's enough to make the doctor in him recoil. Some of it would be enough to cause a world war if implemented correctly. He can't believe that Sherlock, if all people, is the person who decided to step up and do something about this.

Suddenly John feels a bit guiltier about all of the times he's accused Sherlock of not caring. Because this, this right here, this is proof that in some way, on some level, Sherlock Holmes does care. It might just be about a few people, but he _does_ care. Enough to fake his death and become a murderer for the first time in his life. Several times John has to put the laptop aside and stand up, walk around the room, just to avoid putting a fist through the wall. He doesn't know who he's angrier at: Moriarty for being a sick son of a bitch, Sherlock for being an idiot, or himself for not being there when Sherlock needed him the most. All those nights he spent mourning, uselessly shut up in his flat, and Sherlock was...

Well. He comes to a stop before the window and carefully pulls the curtains aside, gazing down at the street below. It makes him sick to think about the data that's missing from those files; some of the people, there's no information about arrests or anything like that. It's like they stepped off the face of the planet and he knows they didn't. He rubs a hand briskly over his face and shakes his head. It's too late now, there's nothing he can do to change what's already happened. But he can do this, he can take care of Moran and Adair for Sherlock, so that Sherlock never has to kill another man unless he wants to. 

John goes back to the laptop.

He learns about Moriarty's plan and why Sherlock stepped off the roof in the first place. He learns about Moran, who was the sniper with John as a target, and Adair, who was just an idiot that decided to play with the big boys and bit off more than he could chew after he became hopelessly ensnared in Moriarty's game. If John had been a kinder man, he might feel sorry for Adair, but he doesn't. All he feels towards these two men is a cold fury and the desire to make sure that neither of them can ever threaten someone again. And as he finally gets to the section where Sherlock has compiled his information on them, John begins to realize that he knows how to do it. Sherlock has given him the information he needs.

Finally, hours later with the sun peeping 'round the edge of the curtains, John shuts the laptop and sets it aside. He feels exhausted, certainly; the paltry few hours of sleep he has got since this whole thing began aren't enough to keep anyone except, perhaps, Sherlock running. But he also feels elated, like the end is in sight, because if he can pull this off - and he'll need Greg's help to do it - then there is a chance that Moriarty's influence will be erased from the planet permanently. And while there will always be evil men out there, people ready to cause trouble, he'll feel a hell of a lot better when Moriarty's not one of them.

He picks up his phone and calls Greg.

"Lestrade."

"It's me," John says. He's cautious about how much he's going to say. Normally he wouldn't need to worry about it: this phone was a gift from Mycroft, given to him about a month after Sherlock fell. It's got all of the latest technology, some of it stuff that won't be released to the public for years if ever, and it should be foolproof. But he also knows that underestimating an opponent is an excellent way to go down before the war has even begun. Adair seems like an idiot but Moran is crafty.

"John," Greg says, sounding relieved. "I went by your flat but there was no one there. I did hear a few odd sounds but then I got your e-mail..."

John's lips twitch. "Did you go inside?"

"No." There's a wryness in Greg's voice. "Should I have?"

"Maybe it's best you didn't." That could easily be one of those things that toes the line of what Greg is and isn’t willing to do. “Listen, I need to speak to you. I’m going to text you a location. Can you come when you’re done work? I think I know how we can end this.”

“I’ll come now,” Greg says, and John can hear the sound of him standing up and starting to gather his things together. “I’m all for it. I did what you asked, the research on Moran, and I recognize him. I’ve seen him hanging around the office.”

“Fuck,” John mutters, his stomach tightening. “Be careful Greg.”

“You too. Don’t open the door until I get there.”

The dial tone rings in John’s ear and he clicks the phone off before putting his head in his hands. He feels tired, worn. He wasn’t prepared for this and all he can think about is what could go wrong if this fails. For a moment he lets himself think about how much easier this would be if Sherlock and Mycroft were a part of it, if he could depend on them to see things that ordinary people would miss. But that’s not going to happen, not in the near future, and he sighs, standing up slowly. There’s just enough time to lie down beside Sherlock and have a quick nap before Greg arrives. 

Sherlock is curled up in a little ball on the bed. John lies down beside him and stares at the ceiling. Even though he’s tired, his mind doesn’t want to stop racing and he can’t stop being on alert for every little sound. He jumps when Sherlock rolls over and throws an arm across his waist. At first he thinks Sherlock is awake, but he quickly realizes that Sherlock is just seeking out a source of heat; his skin is cool to the touch and he’s shivering. John sighs and wraps an arm around the slender shoulders, leaning towards him. It’s not what he usually does but he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to that tumble of curls. The relief that floods through him is enough to drive away the bad thoughts.

“God I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers into Sherlock’s ear, closing his eyes. He falls asleep like that, pressed so close to Sherlock that no one can get between them, and it’s good.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg brings food with him: Chinese for him and John and a couple of bowls of plain chicken broth for Sherlock. “I figured you wouldn’t have had much time to pack food,” he says when John looks at him gratefully. “And I know you won’t want to leave him alone. I’ve brought enough to last you for a couple of meals and I’ll get more the next time I come by if I have to.” He doesn’t have to add that he hopes this whole miserable situation will be over and done with so that he won’t have to.

“Thank you,” John says, meaning it with all of his heart. Now that he’s had a few hours of sleep and can smell the food he realizes he’s starving. His stomach feels like it’s been carved hollow, but he resists the urge to dive in and instead grabs one of the bowls of broth. If John hasn’t eaten for a couple of days, it’s probably been a week for Sherlock, possibly longer judging by the state of his ribs. John can count every one at a glance.

He lets Greg start setting the food out and moves over to the bed where he sits beside Sherlock. “Sherlock, wake up. I have food for you.”

Sherlock stirs at the first call, which is an excellent sign. His eyes are a little more focused when they open and peer up at John. He wrinkles his nose when he realizes what John is holding and turns away, pressing his face into the pillow. “Go away. I’m not hungry.”

“You must be. And even if you’re not your body needs the nutrients,” says John. “All of the antibiotics in the world won’t help if you keep starving yourself. I’d guess you’ve already lost about ten pounds and that’s weight you didn’t have to lose in the first place.” He nudges Sherlock in the side gently until the man glares at him. It’s a pitiful excuse for the looks John used to get but it still makes him absurdly happy to see it. He uncaps the bowl and dips the spoon into it. He has to admit it smells heavenly.

Sherlock pouts but obediently sits up a little, allowing John to thrust a pillow behind his back. He looks around the room, at Greg, at the Chinese, and then back at John. Something flickers in his eyes, a shade of confusion that wrenches at John’s heart. “Are you really here?” he asks uncertainly.

John wonders, at that moment, what Sherlock is thinking. Does he think this is some elaborate trick of Moran’s? Or that he’s hallucinating? Both options hurt. He drops the spoon back into the bowl and reaches out, brushing a curl away from Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock inhales sharply when John touches him and his eyes go wide, lips parting a little like he can’t believe John just touched him. He looks like a little kid and John gives him a small smile, hoping to hide the fact that he seriously wants to pin Sebastian Moran to the floor and choke him slowly. 

“Yes, I’m really here,” he says instead. “You showed up at my flat and passed out on my couch. Nearly gave me a heart attack, by the way, ta for that.” He picks the spoon up and holds it out. Sherlock’s eyes lock onto him for a very long, tense moment before he opens his mouth, allowing John to slide the spoon inside. Neither of them says a word as John continues to feed him and Greg looks away, pretending that the barely functioning telly is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

When the bowl is half empty Sherlock turns his head away. “No more.”

John studies him. His colour is a little better - he doesn’t look so dreadfully pale - so he decides to let it rest for now. He snaps the top back on the bowl and puts it aside. “Do you remember what happened, Sherlock?” he asks, automatically taking two more antibiotics out from the little container. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says cautiously, swallowing the pills without water. He offers no more details.

“None of that.” John pins him with a stern look. “I’m tired of all your secrets, Sherlock Holmes, and I’m not letting you do this anymore. We’re going to have a long talk, you and I, as soon as there’s not someone actively trying to kill us both. And rest assured that you’re going to get yelled at and probably punched for that stunt you pulled. But in the meantime, I want to know what they did to you.” He needs to know what Moran has to be paid back for.

“John,” Sherlock says, and he sounds _lost_. The situation has gone out of control and he clearly has no idea what to do about it.

John instantly slides across the bed until he’s sitting right beside Sherlock. He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and shifts until Sherlock can lie against him. It feels intimate, especially in front of Greg, but Sherlock needs to know this is real and John… well, he’ll take any chance he can get to have physical proof that Sherlock is alive. “It’s alright,” he says softly. “Just tell us what happened, Sherlock.”

“It began with Moriarty,” Sherlock says unsteadily. Greg moves away from the window and sits down on the edge of the bed to listen. “He wanted to make me commit suicide. I suppose he believed it would be the ultimate disgrace.” He looks away from John and Greg, focusing his eyes on the far wall. “To make me do it he had three snipers targeting you, Greg and Mrs Hudson.”

The look of shock gracing Greg’s face makes John feel guilty. He’d found out from the laptop, of course, but Greg is hearing this for the first time and John can attest to how much of a blow it is. Hoping to give Greg a minute, he says, “You would have needed help. Someone who was in the position to make it look like you had died; someone who could make sure people didn’t ask too many questions. It was Molly, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Molly agreed to help me. She was the only one who knew. Even Mycroft believed I had faked my death until the day I showed up in his office a couple of weeks ago. That’s where it all went wrong.”

“Adair,” John mutters, things suddenly falling into place. Moran, if he was smart, would have had someone monitoring Mycroft. Even with the animosity between the two brothers it was obvious that Mycroft would’ve moved heaven and Earth if it meant that Sherlock would have survived. And it made sense that Sherlock would go to his big brother eventually. Sherlock must have been really out of it if he hadn’t noticed the trap that had been set for him. Once he’d walked into it all Moran had to do was wait for the right opportunity. 

“Correct. He and Moran ambushed me.” Sherlock is frowning. “What’s been going on?”

Since he evidently doesn’t remember the last few days, John smiles at him. “We’re going to set Adair up,” he says pleasantly. “And turn the tables on Moran.”


	10. Chapter 10

Predictably Sherlock reacts poorly to this idea, and proves it by throwing the covers back and launching himself to his feet, all the while ranting about snipers and dangers and... Well, John stops listening in his haste to get off the bed and around to Sherlock's side before the man collapses. He doesn't manage it but fortunately Greg, who is much closer, does. Greg gets an arm around Sherlock's waist just as Sherlock's legs give out and he crumbles, head falling against his chest. John grabs his other arm and puts it around his shoulders, helping Greg to share the dead weight that's hanging between them. Working together they manage to put Sherlock back into the bed without too much difficulty. Sherlock's eyes flutter open as John pulls the sheets up around his chest.

"Don't," he says, the word barely audible. His voice is thick, his face lined with heavy exhaustion, like the mere acting of standing and taking a couple of steps has set him back weeks of progress. "Don't. You don't know what he's capable of, John. He'll kill you. He would've before and I can't..." He trails off but John thinks, hopes, he know how that sentence would've finished. _I can't lose you again_.

"It's alright, Sherlock," he soothes. Again, he leans down and brushes a kiss against Sherlock's forehead. The skin beneath his lips is warm but not as hot as it has been. He feels Sherlock shiver underneath him and whispers, "Don't worry. You don't have to worry about anything else from now on, I promise. Greg and I are going to take care of him. I couldn't help you before but I'm going to do it now. Just go to sleep and think about being back at Baker Street with Mrs Hudson and me. You'll be able to work on your experiments while I write out a blog entry and when I'm finished and it's been posted online you can mock me in the comments just like you always do."

"Poor writing. You never stick to... to the facts," Sherlock murmurs sleepily. The previous tension and alarm seems to have disappeared as his body's desire for sleep takes precedence. It's exactly the sort of thing that would enrage him if he weren't in such poor shape, but as he is he has no choice but to succumb.

John smiles and shifts so that he's perching on the bed, half-lying beside Sherlock, his cheek resting against Sherlock's hair, "Yes, well. Then we'll be able to get a text from Greg and you'll go rushing out the door and I'll chase after you like always. You'll be brilliant and amazing and you'll solve the crime and leave Scotland Yard wondering how you put everything together. I'll patch you up afterwards and we'll go home and then I'll make you eat. Chinese, maybe." Sherlock's eyes are shut and his breathing has deepened. John presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead again. He can't stop thinking about how much he wants that to happen, how he'll do anything to make sure it does.

He stays like that for a while, possibly longer than he should, and when he turns around again Greg is studiously leaning over a carton of rice and using a pair of chopsticks like they require all of his concentration. John rises from the bed reluctantly and goes over to sit across from him. His appetite has deserted him but he knows he needs to eat so he grabs an eggroll and bites into it. The spicy taste of egg and vegetables makes him feel a little nauseous but he resolutely swallows and takes another bite. "We've got to do this fast," he says, finishing it off and licking the grease from his fingers. Piss poor manners but he hardly cares now. "Before Sherlock gets well enough to try and stick his nose in."

"You said you had a plan," Greg says. He sounds a bit off and John gives him a second glance.

"Greg, I know you've had a lot of shocks in the past few days. If I could've told you ahead of time, I - "

"Don't, John. You've had just as many surprises as me, possibly more since I see you got that laptop working." Greg jerks his chin towards the laptop in question. "It'll take me a while to... to put it all together in my head but you don't need to worry about me. I can put it aside until we've done what we need to do. The important thing is to get those two idiots off the streets. Sherlock won't be safe until we do." He says in the way of someone who is willing to do anything to protect Sherlock and John feels an immediate swell of gratitude towards him. God Greg is a bloody good friend.

“Right,” he says, getting down to business. “From what I’ve seen this bloke Moran is a bloody paranoid bastard. Would have to be in this line of work, I suppose. He’s probably not too keen on having to work with Adair. If we can get him to think that Adair has double crossed him in some way we can get Moran to do half the work for us.”

Greg sends him a sharp glance. “Are you suggesting we set Adair up to be murdered?”

“If we can do this so he ends up behind bars, fine,” John says. His stomach tightens and he sets down the second eggroll. “But Greg, I’m telling you now that if I have to put my gun to Moran’s head and shoot him between the eyes to make sure he never touches Sherlock again, I’ll do it. If that’s what it takes I’ll see his body at my feet.”

There’s a pause during which Greg just looks at him and John stares back, not bothering to hide anything. He’s a detective inspector and this goes against everything he knows. John can see the internal war going on his eyes. It’s a fine line to cross, the decision to kill a man and not out of self-defence, and if Greg isn’t willing to go there John doesn’t blame him. It only took a day, less than that, for John Watson to realize he would do anything to protect Sherlock Holmes and that isn’t going to change now.

“How will we do it?” Greg says at last.

John exhales, hardly aware that he was holding his breath. “Gambling,” he says, dizzy with relief that he can still depend on Greg. “Sherlock’s notes said that Moran and Adair gamble together on a regular basis and they’re not honest about it. There’s more than one way to cheat a man, after all, and they’d need funds to support their hunt now that most of Moriarty’s web has been taken down. You’re going to talk to Adair and make sure Moran sees it and then I’m going to infiltrate the ring. Moran will think that Adair’s gone to the police and I’m there to collect evidence.” Moran will kill Adair and John will take a great deal of pleasure in killing Moran.

“Right.” Greg nods and he knows that John is leaving something out but he’s willing to let it go for the time being. “Let’s do this.”


	11. Chapter 11

It’s almost pitifully easy. According to Sherlock’s notes, Moran and Adair gamble several times a week. Sherlock has to have been watching them for a while because he has details on where they’ll be and who they’ll be playing with, as well as what he thinks their favourite cheats are. That’s all information John is willing to accept as true, because this is Sherlock and he doesn’t miss things when it’s important, not when it’s what’s standing between him and the ability to come home. Over the next couple of days, John stays with Sherlock while Greg puts in a handful of carefully schedule appearances around the flat where Adair is rumoured to be staying. Once or twice he runs into the man, even gets the chance to talk to Adair about a made-up crime in the neighbourhood, and John has to congratulate Greg for his patience in not shooting Adair on sight because John’s not sure he’d be able to keep himself from doing it.

Greg is certain that Moran’s seen them together, so tonight the last part of Moriarty’s web won’t know what hit them. Greg’s scouted out the building where Adair and Moran are supposed to be gambling and, based on the information he’s brought back, John is ready to go in. He’s taken a page out of Sherlock’s book and got a little disguise together, though he wants to be recognized so he doesn’t try very hard. He even cleans and polishes his gun, making sure that all the parts are in working order. 

The hardest part turns out to be finding someone who can stay with Sherlock. In the end John texts Molly and asks her to come to the room. She already knows and if she’s kept the secret for this long then he’s fairly sure she’s not going to tell anyone anytime soon. Molly seems to be surprised by the request but, like the sweet girl she is, she writes back to say that her shift has just ended and she’ll be by as soon as she can. John and Greg work out the last few details of their plan while they’re waiting for her to show up. Within fifteen minutes there’s a knock on the door.

John gets up and checks to see who it is before he opens the door. Molly smiles at him tentatively but before John can say anything she catches sight of Sherlock over his shoulder. Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open. She pushes past John and rushes over to the bed, looking down like she expects Sherlock to fade away at any moment. “He came back to you,” she says in a dazed, disbelieving voice. “I can’t believe it.”

Instantly John finds himself forgiving Molly even though he didn’t know that he still harboured anger or resentment towards her. She looks like she’s going to cry and her hand is actually shaking as she reaches down and touches Sherlock’s cheek, gently like. He stirs briefly before settling back down and John steps forward. “Let him sleep, Molly,” he says kindly, ushering her into a chair. He recognizes the symptoms of mild shock when he sees them and Molly’s just been thrown for a loop.

“Oh, thank you.” Molly sinks down into the chair heavily and stares up at him. For the first time she seems to realize that he’s disguised and her lips quirk into an uncertain smile. “I’m sorry, John. I wanted to tell you but he asked me not to, and he seemed… well, he seemed so certain that he would be putting you into terrible danger if you knew. He wanted to come home so badly.” She bites her lip, like she thinks she’s said too much, and asks, “Is it… is it over, then?”

“Nearly,” says John reassuringly, patting her hand lightly. “Greg and I are going to take care of the rest of it tonight. I realize it’s a lot to ask, Molly, but I need someone I can trust to stay with Sherlock and watch over him. He’s sick. He’s got an infection - ”

“I’ll do it,” Molly says before John’s even finished explaining. Her lovely brown eyes are filled with determination. “Just tell me what to do.”

It says something about the world when a man like Sherlock Holmes can find good people who are so earth-shatteringly loyal to him. John smiles at her and she relaxes a bit. “Thank you. All you have to do is give him some antibiotics around eight. He’ll probably sleep the rest of the time so that’s alright.”

“What do I do if… if someone comes to the door?” she says and her tone makes it clear she’s not talking about housekeeping.

John’s thought about that. “Hand me your phone,” he says and she does. He adds a contact, a familiar number that somehow he knows by heart even though he hasn’t dialled it for months. And then, for good measure, he makes sure that his number and Greg’s are both correct as well. “If something goes wrong call this number first and then me and Greg,” he tells her, handing the phone back. “It’s Sherlock’s brother.”

Greg stiffens in surprise and John gives him a quick glance in reply that begs him not to ask, not in front of Molly, who in spite of her best efforts is already jittery enough. He grabs his gun and tucks it into his waistband, then moves over to the bed. Molly and Greg both look away but John doesn’t really care: he’s past the point where he cares about what people think about him and Sherlock. Now that he knows Sherlock is alive that’s all that matters. He feels no hesitation in leaning down and brushing a kiss over his forehead. Pale, verdigris eyes flutter open and peer up at him and Sherlock reads the situation in a single glance.

“John…” he says softly, miserably, ashamed.

“Shh,” John whispers. They’re so close he can feel Sherlock’s breath against his cheek every time the man exhales. He’s not wholly sure what drives him to do it but he finds himself gently pressing their mouths together, a light touch of lip against lip that feels more right than anything else John has done in the past two years. Sherlock’s eyes are enormous when he pulls away and John smiles crookedly. “Go back to sleep,” he says lowly, “and when I come back we’re going home.”

Home. It’s the promise that allows him to step away from Sherlock and walk towards the door. Greg joins him and they listen to the sound of Molly locking the door behind them before Greg asks, “Mycroft?”

“Adair will be with us,” John reminds him. “He won’t be a danger to Sherlock, not after tonight.”

“Right.” Greg lets out a slow breath and then nods. “You ready?”

“God yes,” John says and means it.


	12. Chapter 12

The gambling den is an old, run-down building that looks mere minutes from falling apart entirely. It’s about a twenty minute walk from the hotel and John spends it calm, while Greg only seems to get more anxious with every step they take. They stop in an alley about a block away and Greg says, "Are you sure about this, John? I could send in a call... get some back-up..." His hand hovers over the phone in his pocket and he looks earnest.

John just shakes his head. He knows as well as Greg does that nothing will happen even if Greg does take the time to call it in. Though the media frenzy over Sherlock and whether or not he was a fraud has long since died down, Greg's reputation has never completely healed from the beating it took, and he still gets a hard time from his fellow officers, particularly when it comes to things that aren't necessarily done by the book. A case like this, with two suspects who have never technically done anything wrong, one the son of an Earl, won't attract the attention of Scotland Yard. If anything it will only serve to get Greg into more trouble if something goes wrong. John doesn't want that. 

"I'm going in," he says patiently. His hands are still and he feels better than he has in ages. "You wait for the signal."

"Alright. Just... good luck." Greg claps him awkwardly on the shoulder. John gives him a nod and squares his shoulders, automatically falling into military stance as he strides forward. The man lingering by the door gives him the once over and then jerks his head in silent permission for John to pass. He walks inside and is greeted by a place that is far more done up on the inside than out. Hundreds of men and even some women are gambling in every way John’s ever heard of, plus a few he hasn’t. This is the kind of place that Scotland Yard dreams about bringing down but John only has eyes for two men. He spots one of them immediately.

Ronald Adair is of average height, perhaps an inch or two taller than John. He has shaggy red hair that needs a haircut and a roughly trimmed beard that's grown into a little point. He's hunched over one of the poker tables, his expression such an open indicator of what he's feeling that John almost feels sorry for him. He stands by and watches as some of the players fold. Adair tosses in a handful of coins and smiles to himself, clearly thinking he's won the pot. When the cards are laid down and it's proven that the bloke across the table has won Adair's face falls and he looks like a child that's just been told off about his favourite toy. He gets up from the table and wanders away and John tails him silently.

This isn't the first time John's ever gambled; the nights could be long and boring in Afghanistan and as a way to make the time pass he’d joined several different games with his teammates. More often than not he walked away with all, or at least a fair share, of the winnings. He has no problem slipping in and out of groups, tossing down a coin here, a pound there, keeping an eye on Adair the whole time. No one seems to think of him as anything more than a bloke who is new to this and is trying his luck at a variety of different games until he finds one to his taste. He is able to track Adair as the man makes his way to the far side of the room. When Adair vanishes through a door at the back John doesn't hesitate to follow.

It's cold back here, dark, and he can hear a low clicking and churning sound. Old pipes, maybe. The smell is horrid and he wrinkles his nose before realizing, suddenly, that it's familiar. His mind flashes back to that moment when he first sat down on the couch beside Sherlock and he remembers how dreadful the detective had smelled. Here, John realizes, _here_ is where Sherlock was stabbed and left for dead. This is where he laid for god knows how long, his body succumbing to infection and fever, before he gathered himself enough to stagger back to John for help. A low boiling anger churns in John's stomach and he steps forward with more confidence, climbing down the stairs and pushing through the door at the bottom just as a gunshot crackles through the air.

For a split second his breath feels tight in his chest. He surveys the scene, surprised and yet not to see that Adair is dying; no doctor can save him from the hole blown in his stomach. He gurgles something up at John and John ruthlessly suppresses his doctor's instinct to help. His only regret is that he didn't pull the trigger himself. He turns away. Sebastian Moran is standing at the front of the room, one thick arm wound around Greg's throat. He's the one holding the gun and now he has it pointed squarely at John. John looks at him and then holds his hands up, not that he thinks Moran will fall for it, but it doesn't hurt to try.

“On the floor,” says Moran, and he sounds calm. “I suppose I ought to thank you, Watson. If it weren’t for you Adair might’ve become suspicious of me earlier. But I was able to pin everything that he was worried about on you two.” His hand tightens around Greg, who lets out a choked gasp. John tenses. “He never even saw it coming, poor sod. Got to wrap up all the loose ends, you know.”

“I suppose you’re including us in that.” John watches the gun, studies Moran, searching for an opening. 

“Of course. You most of all. You were the last job I was assigned.” Moran’s smile is not terribly pleasant. “I’ve spent the past two years making sure that Sherlock Holmes would be around to see me carry it out. Now that I know he’s all safe in your hotel room, as per doctor’s orders, I can follow through.” He aims the gun at John’s forehead. “Good-bye, Doctor Watson. Say hello to Jim for me.”


	13. Chapter 13

In the split second before Moran's finger can tighten around the trigger, John's eyes meet Greg's and then he watches as the other man snaps into action. Greg lets his body go limp and the sudden extra weight is enough to pull Moran off balance. He staggers and the gun goes off, hitting a point just behind John, dangerously close to his head. John ducks away before Moran can recover and goes straight for Adair's body, grabbing for the gun he can see tucked underneath Adair's shirt. Moran lets out a shout of rage and throws Greg aside, aiming the gun at him. He shoots without hesitation this time and Greg groans in pain, falling to his knees as his hands cup his left side. Bright red blood spills around his fingers.

"That's what you deserve," Moran says, pointing the gun at Greg's head this time. "Would you prefer to die slowly or fast?"

"I could ask the same thing of you," says John. The gun in his hand has no bullets left but he doesn't know if Moran knows that. He points it at Moran regardless, hoping to throw him off his game a little. Greg has a little time before the damage becomes irreparable but not much. "Drop the gun, Moran, or I'll shoot you. You don't have the time to finish off the both of us."

Moran smirks and turns away from Greg. "It doesn't matter," he says cheerfully.

John's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you?" Moran glances at his wrist, no, at his watch, John realizes with a sinking feeling. "I told you that I wanted Sherlock Holmes alive long enough to make sure that he knew you had died a slow death. Well, as it turns out I don't have much interest in allowing that bastard to live much beyond that. Delightful as it would be to watch him wallow in the fact that he wasn't good enough to save you, that's not what Moriarty wanted and I for one believe that the world will be much better off without him in it. In exactly one minute, a bomb is going to go off in the lobby of that delightful little hotel you two have been holed up in." His eyes glitter with pleasure. "They'll probably never find his body."

A strange numbness fills John. In the span of a moment he thinks about Sherlock, who he's already lost once, and Molly, loyal Molly who tries so hard, and he knows what he's going to do. He lunges forward, barely noticing the sharp crack of the gun or the burning pain that fills his shoulder, and tackles Moran. Both of them go down in a heap and the gun goes skittering across the floor. John is vaguely aware of Greg crawling towards it as he grapples with Moran. It's not a good fight; Moran is taller and heavier than John and he isn't wounded. He's been trained to fight hand to hand. Neither man has anything to lose at this point and John gives it everything he's got, ignoring the pain, doing whatever it takes to make sure that Moran will never threaten anyone again. The thought of Sherlock sends a cold jolt of rage through him and he manages to swing himself on top of Moran where he starts doling out punches to the man's face.

"Don't move!" Greg shouts. John sucks in a raspy breath and looks up, squinting in the bright light to see that Greg is somehow on his feet and pointing the gun at Moran. "It's alright, John. I've got him."

Moran has gone still and so John gets up slowly, the world spinning when he's standing. He moves over to Greg and takes the gun from him. In spite of the hesitant look on Greg's face he lets John take the gun. Their eyes meet and John's never really believed in being able to silently communicate with anyone but he knows exactly what Greg is thinking. That's why he spins on his heel and, without the slightest bit of hesitation, shoots Moran in the forehead, right between the eyes. The man dies with a surprised look on his face, like he never really believed that John Watson would pull that trigger. John stares down at his body and feels... nothing. He doesn't know how long he stands there for before Greg speaks behind him.

"John," he says and his voice is filled with pain.

"Oh god, Greg." John snaps out of his daze. He sticks the gun in his waistband and rushes back to Greg’s side. "Jesus, mate, we've got to get you to the hospital."

"You too," Greg says, and John just looks at him for a blank moment until Greg nods at his shoulder. John looks down automatically and is surprised to see that his shoulder and arm are both covered in blood.

"I was shot," he says, surprised. 

"Yeah you were." Greg tries to smile. "And now you're going to call for help, yeah?"

"Right, yeah, right." He goes to pull out his phone but he never gets that far. The dim room is suddenly flooded with light as men and women in black uniforms start marching in. They converge on Moran and Adair. John watches them warily, his hand twitching towards the gun, not sure if they're friend or foe, wondering if maybe Sherlock was wrong and Moriarty's web extended further than he believed - 

And then Mycroft Holmes walks in, dressed in one of his neat suits with his umbrella swinging at his side. He glances around the room with a blank expression, taking everything in silently. John doesn't know what to feel but he's relieved, at least, for Greg's sake. Greg has been steadily going grey and now his colour is verging on white. John helps him to sit down and then crouches beside him until Mycroft finally walks over to them. He surveys the two of them and John knows that Mycroft is probably seeing everything, including the fact that he's just shot a man in cold blood.

"John," Mycroft says at last.

"Mycroft," John returns, and with a flash of panic remembers Sherlock. "Look, you've got to get to the hotel where we were staying, there's a bomb and Sherlock and Molly are inside - "

Mycroft's mouth tightens and he lets out a little sigh. For him this is tantamount to a break down and John stands up, intending to demand to know what's happened. The world tilts oddly when he's on his feet and he realizes that it's possible he's lost too much blood and that getting to his feet so quickly probably wasn't his best idea. He's gratified by the naked alarm in Mycroft's eyes as his vision goes smoky gray, and then everything goes black as the grounds rushes up to meet him. He doesn’t even know if he hits.


	14. Chapter 14

The familiar soft beeping of hospital machinery wakes John up. The sweet grasp of sleep is fully broken by a jagged pulse of pain from his arm as soon as he twitches his fingers. He opens his eyes with a gasp and forces himself to go still when his instinct is to writhe in an effort to get free. Experience has taught him that it never works, the pain will just follow, and, after a long aching moment, the throbbing gradually does subside, though he can still feel it lingering below the surface. Moving his opposite hand doesn’t hurt and he lifts it to swipe at his forehead, brushing away the beads of sweat that have broken out.

At first he thinks he’s alone in the room but then he sees that he’s wrong. The room is fairly large, easily able to accommodate two beds. There, a handful of feet away, is Sherlock, alive and well. Even from where he’s lying John can see the man’s chest moving up and down as Sherlock sleeps. His head is tilted away from John and he's dressed in one of the dreadful hospital gowns that he normally scorns. One of his hands rests lightly on top of his chest and there’s an I.V. in it. His other arm, the wounded one, is tucked down against the hollow of his body and John can see fresh bandages on it.

The relief is strong enough that John has to stay where he is for a long moment, just staring at Sherlock, reaffirming the fact that somehow the bloody man has lived to see another day. Before he can push the blankets back and move, the door opens and Mycroft enters. He doesn’t seem surprised to see that John is awake. He closes the door behind him and moves across the room. His umbrella is missing and his suit is wrinkled. It’s the most out of sorts that John has ever seen Mycroft Holmes.

“John,” Mycroft says and he actually sounds _tired_. “Are you well?”

It’s a serious question and John takes a quick stock of his body. His shoulder is throbbing but that’s nothing new. Various muscles ache with pain – no doubt a result of the brawl with Moran – but within a day or two that will subside. He nods. “I’m good enough,” he says and the frank honesty of that statement makes Mycroft nod.

“You gave Inspector Lestrade quite a start when you passed out,” he says. “Fortunately an ambulance was already en route and both of you were transported to the hospital without further delay. If you are curious to know how he is doing, he was in surgery for some time last night. They removed the bullet and did some minor repair work. He was placed in a private room early this morning and I don’t believe he’s woken up. You would have your own room as well, but...” He looks at Sherlock and something that might actually be tenderness passes across his face. “I suspected you wouldn’t mind having a roommate.”

“God no,” John agrees. “What happened, Mycroft? Moran said there was a bomb.”

“There was. Sherlock was unaware but I had long since suspected that there was a leak in my organization, though I wasn’t sure of the origin.” Mycroft finally looks back at John. “Our conversation merely confirmed this. In spite of your desire to remain unwatched I sent one of my best operatives to keep an eye on you. I believe you know her as Anthea? When she saw you and Lestrade leaving the hotel, she remained behind and apprehended Tobias Gregson while he was trying to set up the bomb in the hotel’s kitchen.”

“He got free, then,” says John. He supposes he should be angry at Mycroft for deliberately ignoring his wishes but in the end Mycroft saved Sherlock’s life and that is more than worth it.

Mycroft actually smirks. “Yes, unfortunately. One of your neighbours heard the man calling for help and set him free. I’m afraid your flat no longer has a door.”

“Wonderful.” Though he supposes that it doesn’t matter. All he wants now is to go back to Baker Street with Sherlock. The little flat where he was living has never really felt like home and he doesn’t need to go back; he’d willingly abandon everything there for the chance to go home. He looks over at the other bed again. Mycroft follows his gaze and both of them are silent for a long moment, observing the man that they have fought so hard to protect.

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft says quietly. 

John looks back at him. At the honest sincerity in Mycroft’s face, he swallows and ducks his head in a nod. Mycroft nods back at him and turns, heading towards the door with one last wistful glance at Sherlock. He shuts the door behind him again, leaving the two men alone, and John doesn’t waste any time. He pushes the covers back and slides off of the bed, wincing as his feet impact the cold floor. He pads across the room to Sherlock’s bed so that he can get a closer look. 

The information on Sherlock’s clipboard looks good and his forehead isn’t nearly as warm as it was the last time John checked it. Relieved, John leans against the bed, staring down at him. He’s not entirely over the fear that Sherlock will disappear again. Right now he wants nothing more than to never let the man out of his sight, however impossible that may be. He sighs and reaches down to tuck that wayward curl out of Sherlock’s face, not entirely surprised when the verdigris eyes open and look up at him.

“Hey,” he says gently, “how are you feeling?”

“It seems I should be asking you that,” says Sherlock. His voice is rough, hoarse with sleep, but he’s lucid, dreamy eyes sharp as he looks John over. “Moran?”

“Dead,” John replies, feeling a flicker of satisfaction at the memory. “I put a bullet through his head.”

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes. He reaches out to grasp at John’s wrist, long fingers winding around the delicate bones, and tugs gently. Getting the hint, John crawls awkwardly onto a bed that’s not really big enough for two. He ends up half on top of Sherlock and half on the bed, but even though it causes some of his worse bruises to ache he doesn’t mind; there’s no where he’d rather be. And judging by the firm arm Sherlock winds around his waist, he feels the same way. They fall asleep together like that and it’s good.


	15. Chapter 15

The return to Baker Street, after everything they've been through, proves to be rather anti-climactic. Sherlock is in a bad mood because he had to spend a full week in the hospital and he's only just been released, while John was only required to stay for a few days before he could leave. Of course, the fact that he spent the rest of the time at Sherlock's side when he wasn't packing up his flat doesn't seem to matter. If not for the fact that John is ridiculously pleased to see Sherlock stalking up the stairs like an offended cat and flinging himself down on the sofa, he might be tempted to turn right around and leave again. Instead, he carefully slides his coat off, mindful of his sling, and hangs it up.

"You alright?" he asks. Sherlock is still far too thin. Part of the reason he had to stay in the hospital for so long is because his body is completely unable to fight against any infection: it's that run down from lack of food and sleep. He starts thinking about what they're going to have for dinner.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says sharply in his 'I hate having to repeat myself' voice. "But I'm bored."

"Of course you are." John smiles affectionately as he hears footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Mrs Hudson bustles into the room carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. For once she doesn't bother to make a comment about how she's not their housekeeper. Her eyes are misty as she sets the tray carefully on the table and glances between Sherlock and John like she's half expecting the both of them to vanish. John knows the feeling. Part of the reason he didn't mind staying with Sherlock at the hospital is because he had the man in reach the whole time. No need to worry about Sherlock disappearing again when he's right there.

"Thought you might be hungry," says Mrs Hudson, turning to John. 

"Thank you," John says. "We are."

Sherlock huffs.

John sends him a look. "We _are_ ," he repeats firmly. 

Mrs Hudson just smiles and pats John on the arm. "If you need anything, I'm right downstairs," she says. "Just this once, mind you, but I'll keep an ear out."

"Thanks," he says again and watches as she leaves. It's a relief to close the door behind her and when he turns around Sherlock has sat up and is staring at him. There's an unusually warm look in his eyes as he silently extends a hand to John, who crosses the room in a handful of steps and gladly takes it. He allows Sherlock to tug him down onto the sofa and they curl up, sliding arms and legs together in every which way until there's no space between them at all except where John has to be mindful of his arm. It feels good to rest his head against Sherlock's chest and hear the steady beat of a heart within.

"Alright?" Sherlock asks quietly. One of his hands lightly runs across John's shoulder, tracing the path of the sling.

“Yeah.” John doesn’t think he needs to explain just how alright he is. He sighs and turns his head slightly, tilting back until he can see Sherlock peering down at him. His eyes turn out to be at the perfect height to give him an excellent view of Sherlock’s mouth and he can’t help looking. They haven’t talked about the kiss. He doesn’t even know if Sherlock remembers it considering that the man was pretty out of it at the time. Granted they’ve been touching each other a lot more, but still. He swallows and looks away. “I should get the tea. It will get cold.”

“John.” There’s a husky quality to Sherlock’s voice that wasn’t there before. “Would you… kiss me?”

John stills. A dozen questions rush to his mind but when there’s a gorgeous man asking for a kiss, well, John Watson is not the sort of man who hesitates. He props himself up on his good arm and leans up, pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s. He keeps the kiss short and sweet, relishing in the soft feel of Sherlock’s lips moving against his, the way Sherlock’s hand slides through his hair, before pulling away. He’s relieved to notice that Sherlock is smiling and feels a grin spread over his face in response. 

“Tea?” he says again.

“If you insist.” Sherlock says it like he doesn’t really care even though John knows for a fact that Sherlock has been craving a good cup of tea since he first woke up in the hospital. 

He gets up and moves over to the table, automatically pouring the tea into two mugs and adding just the right amounts of milk and sugar. He carries them back one at a time, handing Sherlock’s over before returning for the plate of biscuits and then for his own mug. The look of absolute bliss on Sherlock’s face when he takes his first sip makes John feel warm all over. He knows there’s definitely a foolish smile on his face but he doesn’t care. He sits back down on the sofa, close enough that their shoulders are brushing, and sighs contentedly.

“Sherlock?” he says once they’ve both eaten a couple of biscuits.

“Hmm?”

“If you ever have to do something like that again, faking your death I mean, I’m going with you.” John’s had a lot of time to think about how to broach the topic. His initial anger has faded, directed as it was towards Moran, Adair and Gregson, and now he just feels tired about the whole thing. He understands why Sherlock did it but that doesn’t mean he likes it. It’s pointless to make Sherlock promise never to do it again and there’s no sense in threats - they both know John will always be here waiting - but this, this is something he _can_ do.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. And when he finally says “John” he sounds kind of lost again.

“It’s alright. I just wanted you to know.” He balances his mug between his thighs and reaches for Sherlock’s hand, giving it a warm squeeze. “From now on we’re going to do things together, got it?”

Slowly, Sherlock relaxes. “Yes,” he says and squeezes back.


End file.
